


The Tyrant and the Angel.

by Howlermonkey



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Ankh-Morpork, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Armageddon, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Discworld References, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Inspiration, Love Confessions, Multi, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Self-Sacrifice, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlermonkey/pseuds/Howlermonkey
Summary: AU version of Crowley and Aziraphale, drawing on Discworld as inspiration. Crowley is leader of a huge city, member of a feudal political class obsessed with power, but who didnt really mean to end up as the head of state, just hung out with the wrong people. He is seen as a bit of a tyrant due to the difficult decisions he has to make daily. Aziraphale is the quiet city archivist, with a few literal angelic traits that seem at odds with the slightly demonic city leader, but which doesn't stop them growing to need eachother.The story begins when Aziraphale's angelic heritage means he has premonitions of a hellish future event looming on his city. He turns to the true angels for their help in stopping it, but they’d rather let it happen so they can do what they do best and fight a war. The war will be in Crowley’s city, and as neither side seems to care about the humans caught in their wake, it's up to Aziraphale to find a way to save the city, and people, he loves best.Some angst, lots of fluffy flashbacks!





	1. Smoked glass

**Author's Note:**

> This fic heavily references Discworld's Ankh-Morpork as a back drop, as well as usurping the character of Vetinari (an absolute legend) to give to Crowley - a politician who is perceived as tyrannical but who has the city's population's best interest at heart ... altogether deep down a nice person. The story is told sometimes chronologically, and sometimes in flashback as the character's come to terms with with the feelings and the events surrounding them.  
We begin with a memory of Crowley from the mind of Aziraphale, who had just been imprisoned by the angels he has been working with for some time, trying to gain their trust so they will help him avoid a cataclysmic event he foresaw coming to his city. They'd rather wait for it to happen and fight a war.

“Why do you wear those inside Lord Crowley?” It had taken two bottles of wine to coax the question out of Aziraphale, and the sharp glance in the amber eyes visible above the smoked glasses made him immediately regret that last glass of liquid courage. His face reddened as he was scrutinised.  
Crowley raised his chin and hid his eyes from the flustered archivist, looking down his long nose at him. The blue eyes were crinkled with worry, his hair tufted in peaks from anxious hands running through it, glowing like a halo in the candle light.

He decided in that moment, that he trusted this man.

“My eyes are ruined, Aziraphale”, he replied, softly. “Too many years of study as a child, at all hours. Too many years poring over pages and pages, all my life really. Even now. It’s made my eyes too sensitive to the light”. He stared at the pale man from behind the protective glasses, watching his expression relax from worry to sympathy.  
Aziraphale leaned forwards, seeing himself reflected twice over in the dark orbs of Crowley’s glasses, before standing up and striding across to the candles on the table nearest them. He bent his knees, and blew them out swiftly.Crowley’s eyes followed him around the room as he visited each cluttered table, blowing out a candle here and there until the archive was only barely visible in it’s furthest corners.

Crowley now sat in a circle of soft light, waiting for Aziraphale to return from the dark to his worn armchair. He took off his glasses, no longer needed, placing them carefully on the pile of books beside him. Aziraphale’s blonde curls, so blonde they were almost silver in the gentle light, swam into view as he took his seat again. He picked up the book he had left in his place as though nothing had happened, and settled in with a contented sigh. Crowley would have missed the furtive glances he gave him as he nestled down into soft cushions, if he hadn’t been looking so intently at him, but he didn’t. He didn’t miss the small smile either.

\--------

Aziraphale thought of Crowley. He always did when he was worried, and he was more than worried now. How long had it been since he'd last seen his face? Years upon years for Aziraphale, perhaps less for Crowley. He prayed it wasn't a long time. He was almost sick with anxiety and disappointment. The tall, thin, wonderfully sarcastic man filled his mind. He allowed himself to linger on the image of him, the shades of black that clad his lean body, the sharp habitual frown written across his features. He saw him prowling his chambers fretfully, the awful weight of leading the city never letting him really rest. Aziraphale had only ever seen him truly calm when he was with him in his own archive, sprawled out on a comfortable armchair, nursing a glass of red wine in the long fingers of one hand, the other perched under his fine jawline. He recalled the way the candle light lit up the copper strands of his hair, but pushed away that errant, aching thought.

Remembering the first time they met brought a semblance of a smile to Aziraphale’s lips. He had had to call him Lord Crowley then. He was more than a little intimidated, being summoned without warning to the chambers of a leader everyone said was something of a tyrant. He was asked to advise on an old law that had been called into question when an old crime had been committed in a new, ingeniously awful way. The compiler of an archive as enormous as Aziraphale's couldn't be anything but an expert in such matters. He tried not to wring his hands in his anxiety, but had utterly failed as he was kept waiting in an antechamber, the clock ticking out of rhythm.

Finally he had been ushered in to the Minister’s chambers, heart pounding in his ears. After all he had heard around the city about Lord Crowley, he had half expected some monster from a fairytale to be sitting precariously behind a mahogany desk, casually feasting on the hearts of the previous experts called in to advise him. Instead, he had found a tired, well spoken man, his amber eyes piercing if care worn, looking at Aziraphale over round smoked glasses. He had almost smiled, asked Aziraphale to look over the law book uncovered in the palace archives for provenance, noted his judgement carefully, thanked him for his time and dismissed him. It had all been over in a matter of minutes, and he hadn’t seen him again for almost four months after that.

Aziraphale sighed and forced the memory away, leaning his silver curls back against the wall he was sitting against. The chains around his wrists clinked as he moved, and a tear slid down his cheek as he closed his eyes on the room that had become his prison.


	2. Not Even Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six months since Aziraphale left the city to get angelic help for some ill defined evil future event. He left Crowley with only hasty goodbyes and half an explanation. It's been a long and lonely six months, and Crowley has finally found the courage to visit Aziraphale's archive again, but when he does all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading chapter two!

Crowley was at that moment pacing Aziraphale’s archive. It had been six months since he had last seen his friend, six months since Aziraphale had even been in this room, but part of him lingered here still. A wine glass still stood on the spindly table by his usual chair, the last dregs long since dry and staining the bottom of the glass blood red. Crowley found himself gazing at it far longer than was strictly necessary. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself awake. Ruling an over populated, chaotic city was always going to be an exhausting lifestyle choice (though Crowley never asked to be a politician, he had just been brought up with the wrong people). Without Aziraphale's kind and gentle smile, words of encouragement ("buck up, dear") and generally aura of goodness, it was proving to be an ordeal. He felt tarnished without him somehow.

The cold light of early morning caught dust motes glittering in the stale air, lighting up a sheaf of papers that had slipped across the floor and been left there to gather dust. That wasn’t like Aziraphale. The man would have fussed and tutted, gathered them up carefully and chastised each individual sheet as he did so. It had taken six months for Crowley to bring himself to enter the archive again, and seeing the signs of Aziraphale’s hasty exit made him wish he hadn’t. He could see his friend in his minds eye, gripped with fear, stumbling out of his home and into the night. He shuddered. It was time to leave. 

He bent down to collect the papers strewn about the floor; some mechanical illustrations of a preposterous invention but the looks of them. There was no rhyme or reason to what Aziraphale thought worthy of collecting. He doubted he would be his friend if there were. He lifted the papers to his face and began to blow off the thick dust that lay there, when he felt the ground lurch beneath him. He crouched low, looking about with alarm, as another rumble shook the archive. Scrolls cascaded from their shelves, heavy tomes toppled from display stands. He heard Aziraphale's wine glass shatter, saw hundreds of shards of blood red glass scatter across the room. Trying to dodge the chaos around him, he leapt up and ran to the door. He had barely reached it when it abruptly went very dark, as though night had already swallowed the day. Wrenching open the door, the first thing he did was drag off his dark glasses. He didn’t need them anymore, because the sun had gone out.

\--------------------------

Aziraphale felt it immediately. The day had come that had haunted his dreams and set him on this lonely path. He felt his world pitch, and he knew. The chains on his wrists were light and long enough that he could move about the room with relative ease, but Aziraphale knew they weren’t made to be broken.

“This is abominable!” he gasped. Gabriel only stared down at him, impassively. “Let me go Gabriel, they’re in my city, these are my friends in danger -”.

Gabriel cut him off, “Yes Aziraphale, and what could you do down there? Die with them?” he scoffed. “Not after all we’ve been through to bring you on side. Only a true angel can defeat true evil, and you aren’t there yet. Not even close. There’s still too much human in you.”

He walked towards the door. “No, you stay here and we will go below to deal with this.” The last words were spoken over his shoulder with calculated carelessness, as the door swung shut behind him and Aziraphale was left alone.


	3. The Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale had known something was coming, something that would change their world forever. He hadn't quite known what it was, but Crowley had began to half believe it was all in his head. Until today. He looks back at the day Aziraphale left to get help, on what until now had been the worst day of his life.

Crowley thought back to the last time he’d seen Aziraphale. He had come to see him in his council chamber, unusual in itself when the archive was their favoured haunt. His brow was drawn and worried, and he was wringing his hands as he was wont to do in moments of anxiety, but his voice was steady as he had explained that he had come today goodbye. Crowley’s blood had run cold at his words, but he reigned in his panic and calmly asked Aziraphale where he was going.  
“Above" he had whispered, his steady voice failing him. Crowley had stood up slowly behind his desk, walking around it and coming to stand a pace or two away from his friend, searching his cherubic face as he said “I thought you’d been resolutely avoiding, if not escaping from, that side of your heritage all your life Aziraphale?” His mouth had felt dry at the thought of the angels finally laying hands on his friend, after he had spent so long running from their interference. Part of his soul called out to them always, he knew. Aziraphale had opened up and told him about himself over several bottles of wine one long evening at his archive.  
An old story really; an angel playing God generations back, with a human woman. A child of two worlds whose ancestors carried the angelic strain, recessively for the most part. Why Aziraphale had inherited so much of that divine heritage, with huge white wings he could call into being, and a combative talent entirely at odds with his gentle nature, he didn’t know. Crowley had surmised once, after too much wine had made him less guarded that he usually allowed, that perhaps it was Aziraphale’s inherent kindness, sweetness, and compassion that allowed the angelic strain to be more pronounced in him, but Aziraphale had just blushed and flustered at his words, and Crowley had fallen asleep to avoid the embarrassed silence that filled the room afterwards. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help what he was, but he had chosen to align most with his human heritage and so had had to run and hide most of his long life. Whenever he had revealed that divine part of himself (He had once, memorably, unfurled his wings and saved a very surprised Crowley from a splattery death at the hands of a madman who had pushed him out of his own tower) the angels could sense it. They guarded their gifts jealously, hating that their pure immortal power was mixed up with that which was base and impure; humanity. Destroying him would destroy that precious strand of angel within him, so instead they tried to convince him to join them and do great deeds in their name, mostly fighting in wars across universes against unspeakable things. The greater the deeds, the more of his humanity would be burned away, until all that would remain was a being of infinite power, infinite life, but no real soul or compassion. An Aziraphale that couldn’t care, couldn’t feel, was a terrifying prospect to Crowley. He had so far avoided this fate, notwithstanding a few close calls, but here he was, saying goodbye to do the very thing he had been running from as long as Crowley had known him. 

His throat was dry when he asked “Why, Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale hesitated, then reached across the space between them to grip Crowley’s shoulder. “I’ve never wanted that life, you know that. Give me a glass of wine, unlimited candles to read by, a well stocked archive and good company" here he smiled meaningfully at his friend, “and I’m quite content. More than content - I’m happy. But Crowley -” Aziraphale looked sick with fear and worry, “- something is coming, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Whatever it is, it’s going to be powerful, and...” He hesitated not wanting to add more weight to the already over burdened shoulders of his dear friend. Crowley was gazing down at him with such a look in his amber eyes, so open and earnest, that he steeled himself and continued, “It's going to be terribly evil, my dear. I know that much. I’m so sorry". 

Aziraphale had looked so scared, so miserable, Crowley couldn’t help drawing him in, holding him close and tight against his chest. Aziraphale returned the embrace, sinking into Crowley and holding tightly onto his black jacket and thin frame. He was as soft and warm as Crowley was thin and sharp edged. There was such a feeling of rightness to this moment in a world that, for Crowley, had just gone all wrong. Aziraphale sighed against him, and before he left had said, “Dear, do make sure you take good care of yourself when I’m gone, you’re positively wasting away”.

Standing on the street outside the archive, looking out at the chaos before him, Crowley could still feel the warmth of Aziraphale in his arms.


	4. Fire and Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is still trapped in heaven as Crowley faces hell on earth.

That morning had been business as usual at the Tadfield Street Market in the west of the city. The stall holders were up and out early to encourage the early risers to part with their money. Tongues were wagging, yawns were stifled behind calloused hands. It was still too early for the habitually lazy city birds to be up, but if they had been the street would have been full of their song. It was all in all, a nice morning. A heggler caused a stir by arriving with a cart full of duck eggs, a rare delicacy in a city with only a rather grubby river that water birds generally tried to avoid. As the first customer of the day was handed a dozen blue eggs, a dull rumble shook the market. All but the most persistent salesmen stopped and stood stock still, while the animals who weren't tethered began to run as fast as their legs would carry them.

The grocer turned to the heggler with a look of alarm. The man didn't have a chance to return the look, because at that moment the ground opened up beneath his feet. On either side of the road market stalls cascaded into the abyss that now yawned across the street, a great rent in the earth belching out foul smoke and teeming with flames. 

The screams of animals and humans alike were indistinguishable as they fell into the fiery pit. With a screeching groan of masonry, the nearest houses toppled in after them. Those lucky enough to be a safe distance from the market scrambled to get away as the edge of the pit crumbled away steadily into ash, falling with a hiss into the abysmal darkness below.   
The heat from the fire turned the air into a thick haze, and kindled the wooden carts and houses nearby. Soon, hot white fire was leaping from rooftop to rooftop, burning down house of pauper and lord with the same ferocity. There wasn't time for anyone to try and save their belongings. There even wasn't time for some people to save themselves. Cry after cry after cry reverberated across the city. 

It didn't take long for the city guards to arrive on the scene, expecting that as usual some enterprising entrepreneur had set fire to their business to collect the inevitable insurance payout. It was a common ploy in a city composed almost entirely of enterprising entrepreneurs, or as the captain of the guard called them, bloody thieving bastards. 

He led the way as his squad ran down the street, stopping several alleys short of the inferno when the air was simply too hot to breath. All wore battered breastplates and metal helmets, feeling as though they were literally roasting in them. 

"Everyone stop!" he yelled over the roar from the fire. He took in the crowd streaming past him and plucked someone out of it roughly.

"What's happened man?" he asked. 

The man was covered in soot, breathless from running, but managed, "Markets gone, huge hole!" He clutched his chest and struggled for breath. "Its a pit, an enormous pit, opened in the middle of the market!" He shook himself free of the captain and joined the escaping throngs.

The captain looked grimly in the direction of the marketplace. He took of his breastplate and helmet, letting them thud to the floor. He turned to his sergeant.

"Half of you fall back to cooler air nearby, try Soho Street, and wait for me there as long as its safe.The rest, send them running to the other guard stations and raise the alarm. Muster as many people as you can, get the fire hooks and start bringing down buildings, make a fire wall. We might save some of the city yet". 

The sergeant nodded and began to move out with her squad. They were sweating in the heat, and looked all too ready to move.

The captain turned and ran towards the market. 

\-----------------------

Aziraphale's archive had begun to smoulder in it's alleyway off Soho Street. It was pitch dark in the narrow passage, and Crowley was horribly torn, not wanting to leave his friend's home and lifes work to go up in flames undefended. He was still holding some of the papers covered in the clever mechanical drawings, though they were crumpled up tightly in his fist. He stuffed them into his jacket pocket, a souvenir in case the worst happened. The darkness that had at first blinded him behind his glasses passed overhead, lifted on thermals farther over the city, and he saw a squad of coughing guards turn the corner from the main street.

"Sergeant!" He called to the blonde woman leaning against the alley wall catching her breath. She turned and saluted, "Lord Crowley!"

"Did you come from the direction of the fire sergeant? Whats caused it?"

She coughed, "We're not sure yet my lord, we couldn't get close enough to see. Everyone was running away but we think it started in the Tadfield Street Market. Captain Wells went in to get a closer look, said to wait here for him as long as it's safe"

Crowley opened his mouth to tell them to retreat further when the alleyway behind them lit up blindingly. A noise like a roaring wind passed over, followed by the almost musical tinkle of glass landing on cobble stones. Crowley turned in time to see the ornate wooden door of Aziraphale's archive slam shut as the fire within ate all the air, before flames licked out of the now empty windows gloatingly and obscured the entire facade. Tiny sparks of light like fireflies were leaping into the air from where the roof had been. All paper, all words written by hands long dead, found by Aziraphale and meticulously preserved, passionately loved. All gone. 

Crowley was too stunned to move, until the sergeant gripped his shoulder. Her men were already running, following her bellowed order that Crowley somehow hadn't heard. 

"Lord Crowley, you've got to move! The fires too powerful here, there's nothing to be done!".

Crowley turned his face slowly to look at her, smeared with soot, mouth set in a grim line, jaw clenched tightly. He turned on his heel and began to run towards the Tadfield Street Market. 

"Not that way!" screamed the sergeant, but he was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of all he'll breaking loose, on to the next!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
